


The Highest Calling

by OniGil



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: .......yes it's exactly what you're thinking, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues, Decepticon Ideology, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Improper Use of Great Swords, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Mind Games, Seduction, Sticky Sex, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniGil/pseuds/OniGil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The meeting on the cliffs ends up with Wing disarmed (in more ways than one) and captured, on a shuttle with a Decepticon on the run. And there's not much to do but talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Highest Calling

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do a "little" darkfic just in time for Halloween, and then my thoughts ran away with me and I ended up with... this. Holy Stockholm Syndrome, Batman!

            “I’ll need a weapon,” he said. And then, “Can I borrow a sword?”

            Wing had a few blades to spare. So he handed one over; he was confident that, with help, he could take the slavers with one sword. And there was always Peerless, if the worst should happen. The stranger took the blade.

            “The captives are directly below us,” Wing said.

            “And the ship?”

            “Far end. When the alarm sounds, you keep them back. I’ll open the cells.”

            The stranger grunted agreement, eyeing the defenses below.

            “What’s your name?” Wing asked.

            An instant more hesitation than was required, practically unnoticeable. “Drift.”

            Wing smiled at him. “Good luck, Drift.”

            The fight was a good one. The stranger was a warrior. A strong one, just as he’d looked. If he must leave the slaves with someone else, it would be someone who could protect them. Even though Wing was forced to alter his plan—there were more guards than he’d anticipated, though he’d made sure the full complement was offworld—and fight alongside him, he remained confident. This would work.

            Drift must have cut off the alarm at some point. So it was finally, suddenly quiet when Wing flared out his wings and carved his blade through one of the behemoth’s heads, taking care of the last of the slavers. He was already planning ahead ( _eyes on your next opponent, not your last_ ) as he landed: there were more slavers offworld who would return to this base, but they had lost some of their own, and this entire cargo of slaves would be safely gone, and maybe this success would be enough to persuade Dai Atlas to clean up the rest of them.

            But his toeplates had barely touched the ground when pain lanced up his wing on the right side. Suddenly his balance was gone and he staggered, half-blinded by pain—had he missed one? He hadn’t miscounted! There couldn’t be one left! His _wing_ …!—as his remaining functional wing tucked in close to his back, defending itself. He began to turn, but a blade sliced the cables behind his right knee, severing the actuators, and he fell to his knees. He reached back for his Sword but there was a third cut and his left arm simply vanished from his network. He stared uncomprehendingly at the energon suddenly rushing down his side, the sparking wires in the stump just below his shoulder, and for a long moment, he felt nothing. Then the Sword was wrenched from his back and the pain hit in the same moment. He screamed, dropping his other sword and grasping instead at the stump of his arm, as though he could stem the energon flowing from the cut lines.

            “ _Fraggit_ ,” a voice cursed right next to him, and he heard a clatter. He stared up at Drift, who nursed his hand, casting a dark look at the Sword now lying on the ground out of reach. “The slag _is_ that thing?”

            “I don’t…” Wing said, and he was amazed at how different his voice sounded to his own audios. “I don’t understand.” His vents hitched in pain.

            “I’m not gonna waste my time with slaves,” Drift said. “I have a war to win.”

            “Is your war…” Wing winced, trying to fold in his broken wing, but it dangled sadly behind him. “…really so important?”

            “The war is everything,” Drift said.

            He came around, picked up Wing’s second sword. He flicked the end of both blades under Wing’s chin.

            “You fight pretty well for a neutral. Where’d you learn that?”

            Wing shook his head.

            “You said you can’t leave this planet. What are you protecting?”

            “Nothing,” Wing whispered.

            “There are others with you. How many? Where?”

            “I’m alone,” Wing said, again. “There’s no one else.”

            “I don’t believe you,” Drift said. “But I bet we’ll find them when I come back with more troops. Get up.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I said so. Get up.”

            “Why are you doing this?” Wing asked. Under the Decepticon’s gaze, he laboriously tottered to his feet. The other mech made no move to help, even though Wing fell twice. If he rested weight on his hamstrung leg, pain swamped him. He was having trouble balancing, too, with an arm missing and a wing damaged, not to mention the lack of the Great Sword on his back. “I wanted to help you!”

            “Like I said. I’ve got a war to win. Get on the ship.”

            Wing shook his head. “No.” Drift pressed the tip of a sword to his throat cables. “What could you possibly want with me?”

            “You’re a good hand in a fight,” Drift said; he glanced down at the empty space under Wing’s left shoulder and the corner of his mouth twisted up. “Besides, I can’t go back empty-handed. I need something to impress Megatron. He’ll forgive anything to learn where neutrals can learn to fight like you. And I’ve got a feeling that piece of shine…” He jerked his head towards the Great Sword. “…is worth more than it looks, too.”

            “You’ll get nothing from me.”

            “Megatron has people who can get anything he wants from you. Get on the ship.”

            He pressed the swords more sharply to Wing’s throat. Wing tilted his head back to expose more.

            “Kill me, then. I’m not leaving this planet.”

            Drift threw his head back and laughed. “You’ve got some Spark in you. I like that. Won’t go on your own steam, fine. You’re in no condition to stop me.”

            He magnetized Wing’s swords to his thighs, scooped up the Great Sword in one hand, and snagged Wing’s arm with the other. Wing grasped for his training, but the maneuvers weren’t designed for one arm, one functional leg. And the pain was incredible, as he staggered behind Drift, his weight falling again and again on his crippled leg. His processor clogged up with errors and emergency alerts—mobility, energon loss. His vision was full of static.

            He hit the ground in a crash. He sprawled there, waiting for his vision to return. Could he stand…? No, his entire body rejected the idea. Crawl, if he had to, reach the exit ramp and…

            _What?_ an ugly voice mocked in his head. _You_ wanted _to leave, didn’t you? Or did you_ like _cowering in that underground city?_

            _This isn’t what I wanted and you know it!_

            But it seemed like Wing’s chronometer was glitching. It kept jumping ahead. Or did he keep passing out? With effort he pulled himself together, force-clearing all the alerts, just in time to feel the engines vibrating beneath him. He felt a wall at his back and hauled himself painfully half upright. Drift sat at the console. He glanced back over his shoulder, his fangs flashing in a humorless smile.

            “Say goodbye to your planet,” he said.

            Wing turned, stumbling against the viewport, to look down at the receding desert of Theophany, with Crystal City hiding somewhere beneath it.

            _I’m sorry_ , his Spark cried. And finally the universe seemed to have mercy on him, because his energon-deprived systems took over and sent him into stasis lock.

 

* * *

 

            Maybe, he hoped just for a stolen, impossible moment, it had been a nightmare. He would come online in his own berth, in his own apartment, and the window would show him Crystal City.

            But the damage reports came in, and the strange hollow cold in his Spark, the sense that some integral part of him was missing. He kept his optics offline for a long moment, testing his right leg—unmovable—and processing the pain coming from his damaged wing. Finally he steeled himself, turned his head, and looked down at the emptiness where his left arm should be. The wound, like the others, had been treated by someone with at least a basic knowledge of field repairs, stopping the energon loss and temporarily protecting against corrosion and rust. But the fact remained that his arm was simply gone.

            Looking for too long at the empty space made his fuel tank roil, so he looked beyond it. This room was obviously some sort of medbay. Some tools he recognized, others he didn’t; the slavers were techno-organics, so there was maintenance equipment for mechanical parts, besides whatever they used on their organic bits. The viewport looked out at a starfield.

            The sight of the stars brought crushing reality: he was very far from home.

            _Home?_ that little voice muttered in his head. _You haven’t been “home” in a long time. Not since the Circle abandoned Cybertron._

            To silence that voice, he sat upright. Getting both feet on the floor was tricky; his left leg went willingly, but he had to shift the right with his hand, and pain shot up his side when the foot hit the ground. He steeled himself, then staggered upright. His right leg still couldn’t handle his weight, and his balance was all wrong. He wound up on the floor.

            _Try again_ , he told himself. This time he manually locked his knee joint; there was pain, but at least his leg would support him for just long enough to take a step. He hobbled from the medbay, swaying side to side—without Peerless on his back, everything felt _wrong_. The shuttle was alien in construction, but fortunately not large, and the lines of its form led him to the cockpit.

            Drift was there, his feet propped up on the consoles. The Great Sword leaned against the consoles next to him. Wing wanted to run to it, but his leg would never stand it. Drift glanced back over his shoulder.

            “Have to… hand it to you,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting, “you’re up sooner than I expected. You’re tougher than you look.”

            “Drift.”

            “That’s not my name.”

            “Then what is?”

            “Deadlock.”

            _Deadlock_. “I like Drift better,” Wing said.

            Deadlock snorted. “Then you’d be the first.”

            He kicked off the console and swiveled his chair around, looking Wing over.

            “Interesting frame you’ve got,” he said, and the way he again ran his optics slowly up and down made it clear he meant every possible implication. Wing’s plating tightened almost imperceptibly to his frame, his fins flattening.

            “Not really.”

            “Some design elements I’ve never seen before,” Deadlock said. “But I bet someone will recognize it. Bet they’ll recognize this, too.”

            He reached out and picked up the Great Sword. Watching closely, Wing could see a flicker of discomfort pass across his face, and instead of holding the hilt, Deadlock propped the sword across his lap.

            “So what’s the story?” Deadlock asked, running a claw oh-so-lightly up the flat of the blade, tracing the ancient glyphs. “What is this thing?”

            “It’s a sword,” Wing said.

            “Yeah. No kidding.” Wing said nothing else. Deadlock ran his claw up the blade again, this time raising a screech of metal from it. Wing twitched. Deadlock’s brow ridges raised. “What? Just a sword, who cares?”

            He went back down to do it again and Wing jerked forward. “Don’t.” Deadlock smirked at him. Wing waited for his vents to run a full cycle. “It’s old.”

            “How old?”

            “Very,” Wing said.

            “So how’s a neutral come across an ‘old sword’ like this?”

            “I found it,” Wing lied, with a silent apology on behalf of his vows.

            “Right,” Deadlock said. “Just lying on the ground on that desert planet where only you were living. Tell me another.”

            Wing said nothing. Deadlock shifted the Sword to offer the hilt.

            “You want it?”

            Wing stayed where he was for a long moment, weighing the options and searching for the trap. But Peerless called to him, plaintive, in a stranger’s hands, and he hobbled awkwardly forward, reaching for it. The moment his hand closed around the hilt, Deadlock grabbed his arm. Wing moved automatically to throw him, but he tried to grab him with his nonexistent left arm. Deadlock gave a twist and Wing ended up pinned against the console, his bad leg at an excruciating angle and his arm and sword trapped by Deadlock’s superior leverage.

            “So here’s the real question,” Deadlock said, his vents coming a little faster with a predator’s excitement, “why can you hold it and not me?”

            Wing relaxed his incriminating grip on the Great Sword’s hilt, not looking away from Deadlock’s face, microns from his.

            “I never noticed,” he said coolly. “Maybe it’s picky.”

            “I like you,” Deadlock said with a grin, and leaned forward just far enough for a bruising kiss. Wing jerked back as though shot and landed in a heap next to the console, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth.

            Deadlock threw his head back and laughed, making no move to help as Wing pulled himself upright, shaking in embarrassment and indignation. “Better get comfortable,” he said as Wing retreated as quickly as his bad leg could carry him. “Even at intermittent FTL it’ll take a while to get to Megatron.”

 

* * *

 

            Wing couldn’t find a lock on the medbay door. He curled up on the repair slab the farthest from the door and recharged poorly, forever expecting Deadlock to burst in, but Deadlock made no appearance. He stayed where he was for nearly a full day cycle on Theophany, while his processor tormented him with visions of Crystal City. Oh, they would be worried now, unable to find him. Dai Atlas might even send a searcher to the surface in a day or two, unless even that would be too much risk. Keeping the City a secret was more important to him than one lost knight. Wing pushed down the bitterness that rose with the thought. Of course it was. Of _course_ it was.

            His systems eventually began to ping him with low fuel alerts and he conceded the need to leave his hiding place. He wasn’t quite out of options. There was still a chance he might overpower the Decepticon, slim though it may be.

            Wing limped from the medbay back to the cockpit; Deadlock lounged in the same relaxed posture as yesterday. He didn’t look back, but when Wing entered, he took a long, loud slurp from an energon cube, a little too perfectly timed to be natural. So surprise, apparently, was out; Deadlock’s sensors were too highly tuned from centuries on the battlefield.

            “Hungry?” the Decepticon said, dangling his cube in one hand. Wing edged toward him, slow and cautious, but Deadlock just waited. Wing half expected the Decepticon to make a grab at him when he came within arms’ reach, but Deadlock didn’t move when Wing took the cube from his hand. Wing almost wanted to try overcoming him then and there, but his systems pinged him again. Better to refuel first.

            Deadlock’s optics never left him as he refueled. Wing tried to plan a method of attack. Only one arm to work with, and the leg on the same side was so heavily damaged he could barely stand on it, let alone lunge or pivot. _Impossible_. No. No, nothing was impossible. _A knight doesn’t give up_.

            He finished his cube and set it quietly on the consoles. The Decepticon eyed him sidelong. Wing leaned over the consoles, serving a double purpose—for the appearance of distraction, and perhaps for some valuable information about their position, but the majority of the text was completely alien. There would be time to translate what he could.

            Deadlock glanced away, and Wing made his move, striking towards the Decepticon’s throat with his forearm stabilizer, good as any knife in a pinch. But Deadlock moved faster than he’d expected—anticipating just this sort of attack—out of his chair in an instant. In any ordinary circumstances Wing could easily have turned the attack into a turn, or a roll, knock the other mech’s legs out from beneath him. The movements came to him easily as venting air, but his crippled leg betrayed him, making him stagger for an instant too long. Deadlock caught his arm and slammed him facedown against the consoles, pinning him with superior body weight. Wing bit down a shout as Deadlock’s hand wrenched on his forearm stabilizer, tearing it away.

            “That was good,” the Decepticon said, panting. “Try that on an Autobot sometime and it might work, even at thirty percent mobility.”

            Wing struggled, but Deadlock rode the motion easily, resting more weight on the smaller airframe. And that was something Wing didn’t need, bent over at the waist with the memory of yesterday’s kiss burning on his lips.

            “Take me back!” he cried.

            “Not happening,” Deadlock said, giving his arm another twist to quiet him down.

            “What do you want with me? Where are you taking me?!”

            “You’re my ticket back into the Decepticons,” Deadlock said. “I’m taking you straight to Megatron. Got a feeling he’ll want to know who you are and where you come from.”

            “There’s nothing to tell,” Wing hissed.

            “Cool your jets,” Deadlock said. “You’re coming with me and there’s nothing you can do about it, so you might as well stop fighting.”

            “Would _you_?”

            Deadlock laughed. “Good point. Seems like you and I have a few things in common, Wing.”

            “I’m nothing like you!”

            Deadlock heaved him off the consoles and tossed him to the floor. “Give it up. I don’t want to damage you any more than I have to, if you’re gonna be one of us.”

            “I’m not one of you.”

            “You’re Cybertronian, aren’t you?”

            “I’m not part of your war,” Wing said, pulling himself into a sitting position. He didn’t trust his leg to stand. His optics flickered towards the Great Sword, still propped casually against the consoles, not afforded its proper respect or care.

            “Pitslag,” Deadlock said, settling back into his chair. “You’re Cybertronian. It’s your war too.”

            “Not all Cybertronians chose to fight,” Wing said. “Some of us chose another way.”

            Deadlock snorted. “There _was_ no other way. You’re no coward, Wing. Why’d you run?”

            Wing bristled. “There’s always another way. And we didn’t—I didn’t run.”

            He caught himself. There was no way to explain without giving away the Circle. But the words rankled. Because really, they _had_ run, hadn’t they? Forced to flee their own world, just to save what little remained of their culture. Running and hiding. Dai Atlas had promised they could wait out the war… but the war just dragged on. How long? How long would he be trapped in his underground prison?

            Deadlock let him stew on that one for a while. To all appearances, he forgot about Wing completely, going back to his consoles—apparently he could read the alien script better than Wing. Eventually he spoke again.

            “So why were you out there, Wing? Why’d you want to fight the slavers?”

            “To free their prisoners,” Wing said. “It isn’t that I wanted to fight them, but I had to.”

            Deadlock tapped his foot on the console. “Now see, there’s what I don’t get,” he said. “What you’re saying is you had no choice.”

            “It’s not that I…” Wing hesitated. “I couldn’t…”

            “You could’ve stayed out of it.”

            “I _couldn’t_ ,” Wing said. “I couldn’t let them suffer. I _had_ to fight.”

          Deadlock laughed harshly. “If you cared half as much about your _own_ species as you do about those aliens…”

            “I care!”

            “What you’re telling me is that you’re willing to fight to stop those aliens from keeping slaves, but when you saw your own kind doing the same thing you ran.”

            “That’s not the same,” Wing argued.

           “Isn’t it? Functionalism,” Deadlock spat. “You’re born with a drill bit and you’re forced to work in the mines, you don’t have a choice. That smells like slavery to me. Megatron and the Decepticons looked at those slaves and they couldn’t stand by and watch. They had to fight. But you look down on us for doing exactly what you did when you saw those aliens in their cages?”

            “There was another way. Our problems could have, _should_ have been fixed from within, not through violence.”

            “At least you admit we _had_ problems. So why didn’t you just walk up to those slavers and say, ‘hey, you shouldn’t have those slaves,’ and negotiate?”

            “It isn’t the same,” Wing said again. “If I’d done that they most likely would have put _me_ in the cages.”

            “Yeah, and if Megatron had walked up to the Senate one day and said ‘hey, we’ve got some problems, care to talk about it?’ Oh wait, people _tried_ that, and they were silenced. Megatron wrote about how we could resolve our problems through nonviolent resistance and look where it got him: shipped off to Messatine, ‘put in the cages.’”

            “That’s not…”

           “So I meant exactly what I said: you don’t care enough about the slaves on your _own_ planet to fight for _them_ , do you?”

            “Of course I care!” Wing cried, stung. _A knight protects the weak_ , that inconvenient voice in his head reminded him. _A knight doesn’t stand by and permit injustice. Does he, Wing?_

            “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Deadlock said, casting him a look somewhere between disgust and pity.

 

* * *

 

            Day three.

            “So how are the injuries?”

            Wing was thrown off by his tone. Not biting or mocking for once, just… sincere. He didn’t know what to make of this other side of Deadlock. No… it wasn’t another side of him. It was just… him, just deeper, the part that Wing had somehow sensed that night on the cliffs. It confused him, the mix of emotions that fought inside him—between gratitude for the concern, and the memory of the pain Deadlock himself had caused; distrust of the monsters that Dai Atlas had warned him about, and his need to see something good in everyone. And still the discomfort from yesterday’s conversation. So he remained silent.

            “Don’t tell me you’re gonna pout all the way back to the Decepticons.”

            Wing bristled. “I’m not pouting.”

            Deadlock’s mouth twitched. Wing looked away. No need to be thinking quite so deeply about that mouth.

            “Come on. Where’s it hurt most?”

            A voice whispered in his head. _A knight swallows his pride._

            He sighed. “My wing.”

            “Come here, then. Let me take a look.”

            _So, question, Wing: do you trust him at your back?_

            But Wing was already moving, as if on autopilot, settling quietly in front of Deadlock. Never mind that last time he’d had the Decepticon behind him, he’d gotten these injuries in the first place.

            This was _different_.

            Deadlock’s hands put the whispering doubts in his mind to rest in any case, gliding with surprising gentleness over the sensitive plating as he straightened the wing out as much as possible. Wing couldn’t extend it all the way, and hissed when Deadlock tried. But Deadlock’s hands moved deftly down the slender struts to the injury, searching for bits of jagged plating or twisted wires.

            “These are interesting,” he said after a while. “I usually see fixed-wing airframes.”

            “Most of us are,” Wing said. He found an explanation queuing up in his vocalizer but closed his mouth abruptly, afraid to reveal too much.

            “So what were you? Before the war?” Deadlock asked.

            “A courier,” Wing said. “You?”

            Deadlock snorted. “I was expendable. Speedsters are common as rust. No place for me in the system. I lived in the gutters. Picked up circuit boosters.”

            Wing opened his mouth and closed it again as it sank in. Then he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

            “Why?” Deadlock said. “Not your fault.” But his tone stirred up guilt, even though his hands stayed careful. The ache in his wing raised sympathetic twinges in his shoulder and knee. Wing reached over to touch the stump of his arm, the rough field patch that had seared his energon lines closed. Deadlock had done that. It was more care than he would have expected from the monsters Dai Atlas and the senior knights warned them about.

            “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he murmured.

            Deadlock grunted. “And?”

            “And…” Wing hesitated. “You… _might_ have a point.”

            “No kidding,” Deadlock said drily.

            “I may have misjudged the Decepticons. And I may have misjudged you.”

            “I still don’t believe that war was the only option.”

            Deadlock sighed impatiently.

            “I’m not saying the Decepticons were wholly at fault,” Wing added quickly. “Mistakes were made on both sides.”

            “Oh, ‘mistakes were made,’ that’s a _classic_. That’s another way of saying ‘someone fragged up but we don’t want to take responsibility.’”

            “That’s not what I meant. All I’m saying is there should have been meaningful dialogue between the Senate and the people. Cybertron was falling apart—I’m not denying that. Our society was sick and bloated and rotten. I remember. Probably not as vividly as you, but I remember. But it never should have come to this.”

            “Spoken as a true member of the middle castes,” Deadlock said. “Low enough to see the injustice but high enough to afford the _luxury_ of ‘meaningful dialogue.’ But when our own people were being _shot in the streets_ because of what we had to do to survive, because we were _there_ , we didn’t worry about dialogue. Someone had to speak up. Someone had to make a stand.”

            Wing hissed as Deadlock yanked a jagged piece of plating out of the sensitive cables exposed in his wing.

            “Maybe you ran before,” Deadlock said, pushing away. “But if you really understood what we’re fighting for, you’d fight with us now.”

 

* * *

 

            Day five.

            The argument, or debate, or whatever it was, sprang up intermittently between them, blazed for a moment, faded back into silence. Wing wondered what shape the war had taken now, how different it was from what Dai Atlas had projected. He’d been cut off for so long. What could he do but listen to Deadlock?

            “Look, that’s behind us now,” Deadlock said. “What you did or didn’t do before the war, there’s no way to change it. But you can change _now_.”

            “I _can’t_ fight in your war—”

            “ _Our_ war!”

            “I made vows, Deadlock, I swore oaths!”

            “You know why I took you?” Wing shook his head mutely. “Because you’re a fighter. And we need fighters like you.”

            “I’m not part of your war!”

            “ _Our_ war, Wing. All Cybertronians. This is about our planet, the future of our _species_. We’re fighting for a future we can _all_ believe in. You’re part of it whether you want to be or not. And if you’re not with us, you’re against us.”

            Wing gusted out a disbelieving laugh at that, but Deadlock slashed a hand through the air.

            “I know how that sounds, but I’m serious. We’re fighting for the right to be whatever you want, no matter what your altmode is. For the freedom to speak out against oppression without getting your head and hands chopped off and swapped out. The Autobots are the old guard. They say they want freedom for all sentient beings, but what they mean is the freedom to do as you’re told and stay in your place.”

            _Stay inside, Wing. Don’t go out there. We’re safe here. We have everything. There is no war in Crystal City._

            “They’re the defenders of the system, the same system that ground our world into the dirt, and if you’re not fighting against them, you’re complicit in that system. If you’re neutral, you’re taking the side of the oppressors.”

            “That’s not,” Wing whispered, “that was never what I…”

            “You could have _stayed_. If you didn’t want to fight—where were you when we were protesting? Where were you when the Senate’s enforcers were snatching us off the streets and sending us back after the Institute rooted around in our heads? You were _silent_ , you didn’t tell them _no_ , and then when we made our stand you _ran_!”

            “I didn’t—I’m _sorry!_ ” Wing cried, burying his face in his hand. “I’m sorry!”

            Deadlock’s hand landed on his shoulder and he flinched, expecting a blow, but instead Deadlock’s other arm wrapped around his neck, pulling him into an embrace. The unexpected comfort caught him utterly off guard and he melted into anything resembling a friendly touch, pressing his shaking body against Deadlock’s.

            “I know,” Deadlock said. “It’s okay. I get it. Your Spark might have been in the right place, but somewhere along the line you lost your way. The Senate used you, all of you. But unlike the rest, you’ve got a second chance.”

            His hand touched the back of Wing’s head, coaxing him to look up, and his lips pressed against Wing’s. Wing surged towards the scrap of affection like a starved mech. Deadlock’s hands moved down his body, steering him backwards until his back hit the wall. He barely noticed the impact, with Deadlock’s glossa tracing his lower lip.

            “What… what do you want from me,” he whispered.

            “You said you wanted to help me,” Deadlock said, barely releasing his mouth long enough to speak, as his battle-hardened frame molded against Wing’s. “The Decepticons need your help. _I_ need you, Wing.”

            Wing bit back a moan as Deadlock’s fingers traced his interface panel. He opened willingly, letting Deadlock take charge of his balance, trusting the Decepticon not to let him fall. His concentration was taken up wholly by mapping Deadlock’s back with his one hand, and hating that he only had half of his usual ability to touch. He keened when Deadlock’s finger traced his external node, sliding from there across his valve cover and back, keeping one finger there while another two pushed inside. Wing clung to him, his fingers buried into a seam on Deadlock’s back, his lips chasing the cables of his throat.

            He buried his face in Deadlock’s neck when the other mech’s spike sank into him.

            “Enjoying this?” Deadlock asked, his finger still rubbing back and forth over Wing’s external node while his spike slid in his valve. Wing could only arch up, changing the angle. “That’s it. That’s it, Wing. Just like that.”

            It was so much easier, so much simpler when his world was only Deadlock around him and inside him, when all he had to do was close his eyes and rock his hips and let the tide sweep him away.

 

* * *

 

            Day nine.

            He’d started sharing Deadlock’s berth. It was to be expected, when Deadlock was the only person here. Wing had always needed people around him, and now he needed the reassurance of Deadlock’s touch, showing him that he wasn’t alone, wasn’t unwanted. And he tried, he tried so hard to understand what Deadlock was telling him. Understanding each other was the only way their kind would achieve lasting peace.

            “But wasn’t there another way?”

            “No. There wasn’t. That’s what we thought too, when we started out. You know Megatron advocated for peaceful change? Civil disobedience? He was a poet. And the Senate punished him for it. You can’t change the system from within if it’s too corrupt to work—the Senators who agreed with us were killed. Shadowplay, empurata, the tools of the system to shut us up. That’s why we had to fight, Wing. We had to stand up and show them that they couldn’t silence us. When you’ve got a virus in your systems, you can’t negotiate with it. You’ve got to destroy it at the roots before it eats you alive.”

            “That’s not what I was told.” He looked, yet again, towards the Great Sword where it leaned against the consoles. And again Deadlock noticed.

            “Of course not. Those in power always change the story. They lied, to keep you complacent, you and people like you. It’s not your fault. They lied to you, like they lied to all of us. It’s like Megatron wrote: ‘You are being deceived.’ That’s why we call ourselves Decepticons. We see them for what they are. We see through the lies.”

            “I… I…” Dai Atlas, lie to him? Then again, Dai Atlas had been a Senator once. And Wing had always argued with him—his need to be out there _doing_ something, against Dai Atlas’s insistence that they hide underground, hoard their peace and prosperity, keep it for themselves while others suffered…

            _At what cost?_ he wondered. _Our compassion?_

            “It’s not your fault. They _used_ you. That’s what they do, find people like you, good people who just want to help, and they _use_ you. They turned you into a shield. People who believe in them, truly believe what they’re doing is right, they use you as a smokescreen to hide what they truly are. Don’t be their puppet, Wing. You’re more than that. You deserve better than that.”

            “I’m sorry,” Wing whispered, yet again.

            “Don’t just be sorry, Wing. You’re learning. Ever read _After the Ark_? _Towards Peace_?” Wing shook his head. “Good place to start,” Deadlock said. He uncovered the hardline ports on his forearm. “You trust me?”

            Wing hesitated. He’d trusted Deadlock before and it had left him crippled and captured. But… but Deadlock wasn’t what he’d expected from a Decepticon. He was different.

            Wing bared his ports.

 

* * *

 

            Day twelve, and Wing was casting more and more glances at the Great Sword, feeling that emptiness growing in his Spark, the cold consuming him.

            “You don’t look so good,” Deadlock said, bending down to look him in the optics.

            “It’s…” Wing looked over at the Sword again, just for an instant, but it was long enough. Deadlock followed his gaze.

            “That thing? Just an ‘old sword,’ right?” He snorted. “So. Ready to tell me?”

            Wing sorted quickly through what was safe, and what was not. “It’s an artifact,” he said cautiously. “It’s just symbolic.”

            “Right. ‘Just’ symbolic.”

            “Of our past. Those who came before us. And it’s… there’s a… a sort of _bond_.”

            Deadlock laughed out loud. “A bond? What, like it’s your _mate_? I could toss it out the airlock if it bothers you, you know.”

            “ _No!_ It’s different, Deadlock, it’s…”

            “A religious thing? Come on, Wing, ‘religion is the engex of the people,’ remember?”

            “I remember. But it’s…”

            “Hey.” Deadlock took his shoulders, squinting into his optics like he was trying to physically pick out what was wrong. “I was an addict, remember? I know withdrawal when I see it. This sword, it’s got something you need? Something you’re dependent on?”

            “It’s not like that! It’s… it’s a _part_ of me.”

            “That’s what I would have said about the Syk. The boosters. It’s just a _thing_. You can’t let it control you.”

            “It doesn’t,” Wing said, but a tiny thread of doubt crept into his Spark. The bond with the Sword worked two ways. Knowing it was one thing, feeling the effects was another— _had_ he gotten dependent on it? This coldness inside him…

            “So, what?” Deadlock said, going to where the Sword leaned against the consoles. He picked it up and grimaced. “You need to touch it?”

            Wing hobbled closer, reaching out. The hilt warmed beneath his fingers and he wrapped them tighter around it, drinking in that beautiful warmth. Oh, he’d _missed_ this.

            Deadlock’s fingers turned his face up and the other mech pressed a kiss to his mouth. The two kinds of warmth swirled and mixed, gratitude and completion, until he wasn’t sure which came from where.

 

* * *

 

            Day seventeen.

            In the middle of his recharge cycle Wing was roused by a roar that sounded like “Turmoil!” and a heavy body suddenly flipping over to press its full weight onto him, a hand tight on his throat cables. Red optics blazed in the darkness.

            “Deadlock,” he choked. “It’s… it’s me. De…”

            Deadlock shook himself, and slowly pulled his hand away. Wing reached up to massage pinched cables. Deadlock’s frame threw out billows of heat as his systems wound down.

           “Bad memory purge,” he grunted, rolling onto his back. Wing levered up onto his elbow, gazing down at him.

            “What do you need?” he whispered. Deadlock’s hand landed on the back of his head, pulling him down for an openmouthed kiss. Wing rolled onto him, moaning softly.

            “You,” Deadlock murmured.

            _Here_ , Wing thought as he opened his interface panel to Deadlock’s probing fingers, then his hot spike. No matter how tough and unfeeling Deadlock could act by day, _here_ was something small and hurt inside of him. Some sign of the mech underneath that Wing knew he could coax out, with persistence.

            Deadlock _needed_ him.

 

* * *

 

            Day twenty-three.

            “What do you want, Wing? When you were done for the day, when you were lying on your recharge berth dreaming of a better future, what did you see?”

            Easy enough: it was New Crystal City, but on a planetwide scale. Not confined to a few thousand mechs fortunate enough to escape the war; not hidden underground.

            “A society where nobody is left behind,” Wing said. “No sickness. No poverty. No one forgotten to fall through the cracks.”

            Deadlock’s optics were bright with enthusiasm as he put his hands on Wing’s shoulders. “We want the same things. That’s what Megatron is offering us, Wing: a world where you don’t have to be what they want, nobody telling you where to go, what to do, who to be. A world where your own choices matter. Where everyone is free to choose their own future. What do you think, Wing? Is that worth fighting for?”

            It was everything he’d wanted and more. Everything Crystal City had, but shared with every Cybertronian. Wing’s Spark swirled with it, reacting to the intensity in Deadlock’s EM field stirring his own.

            “Yes,” he whispered.

            Deadlock kissed him, hard and deep. He bore Wing to the floor and Wing opened for him, drinking in the touch, basking in it.

           “So you’ll join us,” Deadlock whispered. Wing drew back, just slightly, putting his hand on Deadlock’s chest.

            “I… I can’t.”

            Deadlock frowned, sitting up. “You said this was what you _wanted_. There’s no room to stand neutral in our war anymore—I thought you _knew_ that now.”

            “I do! I do want… I do know. But I…” His optics flickered towards the Great Sword. “I’ve already taken vows, Deadlock. I’ve sworn oaths.”

            “To what?” Deadlock spat. Wing glanced at the Great Sword again, almost a plea for help, but Peerless was silent and distant, despite being within arms’ reach. “To _that_? You said it was a relic. A symbol. So is the _past_ more important to you than the future?”

            “That’s…” That wasn’t how Wing had thought of it. He hesitated, confused.

            “What’s more important, Wing? It’s just a sword. It’s just a _thing_. It’s only what you use it for.” Deadlock snorted, running a finger around the rim of Wing’s valve. “I can think of one or two good uses for it right now.”

            Sudden heat washed through Wing, a mix of scandalized astonishment and sudden reckless desire.

            “It’s,” he whispered weakly, distracted by the stretch and shift of Deadlock’s plating as he reached over for the Sword, “it’s not… you _can’t_ … I…”

            It was the lowest, the _last_ thing he should ever want, but Deadlock’s grin flashed down at him as he ran his fingers up and down the hilt, suggestive.

            “Deadlock,” Wing begged, twisting as much as he could, knowing, _knowing_ that this couldn’t happen, this shouldn’t happen, “Deadlock, _please_ ,” but he _wanted_ , so far gone that he wasn’t sure whether he was begging Deadlock to stop or hurry up.

            But it didn’t matter what he wanted.

            Deadlock’s wants were all that mattered. He’d made that abundantly clear.

            Wing’s legs hitched up as Deadlock nudged the end of the hilt between the lips of his valve, teasingly, rubbing little circles around the dripping rim.

            “Here goes,” he said, his optics flicking from the lewd sight to Wing’s face and back, as though he couldn’t decide which was more delicious. He pushed, slow but steady, ruthless, and Wing keened as the hilt sank into him, the subtle texture of the grip more pronounced against the sensitive mesh lining of his valve than it ever felt in his hand. His valve calipers contracted, grasping at it, and Deadlock gave a low chuckle.

            “Knew you’d like this. Let’s see how far we can go.”

            Wing cried out as Deadlock pushed the Sword deep into his valve. His optics flickered as the end of the hilt lodged at his ceiling node. Deadlock gave the Sword another push and a twist and then let go, sitting back on his heels, watching Wing’s valve deal with the sudden intrusion. There were really only two ways it could go; either his calipers would force it out or clutch it closer, and Wing’s valve instantly showed the latter, contracting tight, his calipers working instinctively to draw the Sword in deeper.

            Wing’s head lolled from side to side; it felt like nothing he’d ever experienced before. The Sword was so warm, as warm as when he wielded it in battle, and tingling the way it did in his hands, the subtle charge that had always comforted him now transmuting to pleasure in his valve. That faint pull in his Spark that always came when he held the Sword now felt erotic. His hips rocked instinctively and he moaned.

            “Wow,” Deadlock said. “You _do_ like that. See? Nothing to be scared of.”

            Wing’s systems heated up in humiliation and shame. His bond with the Great Sword was sacred, special; it was the height of _wrongness_ to take pleasure in this act that made a mockery of that bond. But the pleasure was so incredibly overwhelming, and Deadlock’s approving optics drinking in his writhing form only added flavor, brought him that much closer to overload. The confusing swirl of emotion made his vents come in great heaving sobs.

            “Go on,” Deadlock said. “Touch it. You can pull it out if you want. But hey, I doubt it.”

            Wing reached down, blind with need, and his fingers wrapped around the section of the hilt that remained outside of him. He should pull it out. He _must_ pull it out. He couldn’t profane something this sacred. For a moment he thought he was saving himself, pulling it back, halfway out now. But— _Primus forgive me!_ —he found himself pushing the Sword back in, grinding his hips down in circles, trying to catch as many nodes as he can. He repeated the maneuver, pulling the Sword halfway out, then thrusting it back. He cried out, a broken sound, his legs falling wide, giving Deadlock an unobstructed view, and fell into a rhythm: pull, thrust, pull, _thrust_ …!

            He sobbed, driving his hips down, squeezing his optic shutters closed, but he could still _feel_ Deadlock watching him. And all the while he could feel his charge spiraling higher and higher, the shame making his core temperature skyrocket, and his shivering grew more and more violent until he convulsed with a wail, curling around the Sword, overloading hard on it, grinding it against his ceiling node to draw out the pleasure.

            He fell back in the wake, his vents roaring. Optical lubricant slid down his cheeks. He made a wrenching sob when Deadlock’s hand closed around the hilt of the Sword and pulled it out of him in one ungentle tug. Wing watched dimly, distant, as Deadlock inspected the hilt, coated in lubricant.

            “See?” he said. “A sword’s just a sword.”

 

* * *

 

            Day twenty-four. The energon supplies were nearly gone, but FTL had finally brought them to Megatron’s flagship. Wing watched the approach through the viewport, his remaining arm wrapped protectively around himself. Deadlock had made contact with the Decepticons; Megatron had agreed to hear him out. Which meant that Wing was a few minutes away from coming face-to-face with the mech Wing had thought of as a monster from Dai Atlas, a terrorist from the Senate, a revolutionary from Deadlock, a visionary from his writings.

            “So? You ready?” Deadlock asked.

            “I… I don’t know,” Wing said. “I swore I wouldn’t take up a faction.”

            “Don’t think of it in factions,” Deadlock said. “I know you, Wing. You want to help people, you believe in freedom. This isn’t just about Decepticons or Autobots. It’s about _all_ Cybertronians. If you won’t believe in the Decepticons, believe in _me_. You know what I’m fighting for. You know it’s the right thing. You can help end the war faster if you just rise up with us. For freedom, for justice, for _peace_.” He held out his hand. “Help us, Wing. Help _me_.”

            _Helping another is the highest calling one can aspire to_.

            Wing took his hand.

 

* * *

 

           Megatron was… much larger in person than Wing had expected. As big as Dai Atlas, and twice as unnerving. But he listened patiently as Deadlock gave the compressed version of his side of the story, from his altercation with Turmoil to the crash on a distant planet, a mention of the slavers and their ship.

            “Turmoil wasn’t happy, Deadlock,” he said at last.

            “Yeah, our command styles didn’t exactly mesh.”

            “And yet you returned to me.”

            “I may not agree with Turmoil, but I’m still a Decepticon.”

          “And an excellent asset to our cause,” Megatron said, turning his attention towards Wing. “And who is this?”

            “He’s Wing,” Deadlock said. “He’s a fighter. A good one, when he’s repaired.”

            “High praise, from Deadlock,” Megatron said. “And where did Deadlock find you?”

            Deadlock spoke up again. “In the slavers’ cages,” he said. Wing hid his sudden confusion. “I broke him out in exchange for his help killing them.”

            “And such injuries happen to the best of us,” Megatron said, raising a brow ridge.

            “It was a surprise attack.”

            “And does he not speak?” Megatron said pointedly.

            “I do,” Wing said quietly.

            “Ah,” Megatron said. “That’s better. What is your weapon?”

           “These,” Deadlock said, holding out Wing’s twin swords. Megatron took them; they looked tiny in his hands, even when he activated the blades.

            “Not many mechs choose swords,” he said. He delicately tested the edge on the blade with his thumb. “Why do you use these?”

            “Respect for my opponent.”

            “Spoken like a gladiator,” Megatron said in approval. “Are you here to join us, Wing?” He said the name as though doubting it was real.

            Wing hesitated, then nodded. “I am.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I want what you want.”

            “And what is that?”

            Wing met his eyes steadily. “Peace.”

            Megatron smiled, exchanging a glance with Deadlock. “You’ll do nicely.” He held out one of the swords, offering it. “Will you join our fight? Will you rise up for the future of Cybertron?”

            Deadlock’s gaze rested heavily on his back. Wing took the sword. “I will.”

            “Then you are one of us, Razorwing.” Megatron passed the second sword back to Deadlock. _Razorwing_. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken a new name. “Deadlock will see that you receive repairs, and your new badge. Meanwhile, I’ll find a place for your both.”

            Wing stared at the blade in his hand until Megatron had gone. Then he magnetized it to his thigh and took the other one back from Deadlock.

            “Why did you lie to him?” he asked quietly. “About where you found me.”

            “I figure you’ve earned a little trust,” Deadlock said, taking his chin and giving him a kiss. But he didn’t let go when he pulled his face away. “As long as you _stay_ trustworthy, no Decepticon boots on your planet. Any second thoughts… I make no promises.”

            He pressed a kiss that was more of a bite before Wing could fully work out his meaning.

            “You can trust me,” Wing whispered.

            “I know I can.” Deadlock tapped the center of Wing’s chest. “Come on then, ‘Razorwing.’ Time to get your badge.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments would make my day. (You know you want to.) Oh, and then there's art on my tumblr, somewhere.


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